


that's how the light gets in

by jazelock



Series: affidavit, to be filed [1]
Category: Fallen London | Echo Bazaar
Genre: F/F, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-16
Updated: 2018-04-21
Packaged: 2018-08-09 04:14:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7786357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jazelock/pseuds/jazelock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Those whose edges were broken off and filed down in ways that didn't quite fit.</p><p>(There were, of course, more than three. But if it's a love story you want, then it's three you'll get.)</p><p>(These are not love stories.)</p><p>Fallen London is © 2015 and ™ Failbetter Games Limited: www.fallenlondon.com.  This is an unofficial fan work.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sia

At first, you take her eyes for a reflection of the light cast by the many glowing mushrooms dotting the lake shore.

It’s mostly because you didn’t expect to see her here. You meet in Veilgarden, in Elderwick, although sometimes she will indulge you and wait for you in one of the many establishments along Hollow Street. Sometimes, she insists for one reason or another on Hangman’s Arch, but not often, and you don’t suggest the place yourself. But never in the Neath, not this close to the Bazaar. There’s always been an unspoken understanding between you that here, it’s too close to business and you don’t talk about business to each other the same way neither of you talk about the Dreams.

But this is the Unterzee and you don’t have to look around to make sure you’ve not wandered off, whether due to your mistake or someone else’s intent, to some other lake; the lights of the Bazaar glow and the Bazaar himself _broods_.

And yet, it is unmistakably her, and you’re guessing it’s a day for “she”s and “her”s from the dress, but you wonder if you might’ve assumed wrong from the tilt of her? eyes.

Her? hands emerge from the shadows and she? signs at you, which only serves to confound you further. Signing, you associate with “sie”s and “zir”s. But sie? is wearing the lace gloves today, the ones made by real Bedfordshire spiders, or at least so you both think. And you think you can see makeup on zir? face. But you donn’t have the chance to ask before sie? starts signing, and now you’re trying to catch up on what you missed in your confusion.

 _Friend see you past. Tell to me._ Sie? signs “friend” at waist level, meaning one of zir? urchin friends. You don’t know the next sign she makes, but you can hazard a guess from the expression of it. “Sie means–” You get an abrupt sign of  _no_ , and you backtrack. “She means this friend saw one...kissing?”

_Yes._

“What about it?”

Her eyes narrow at you before she turns her face away. Her hands are still for a moment before responding. _I not know you have someone kiss._

You yourself grow still in turn as a troubling thought occurs to you. You strive to keep your voice casual as you tread forward, “Well, now she knows, at least.”

_Yes._

Echoes clink in your pocket as you stop. Something is humming from behind the lakeside reeds. “Did this matter to her?”

Pause. _Yes._

You wince. “One apologises.”

Her eyes have changed their tilt when she turns back, and it hurts you horribly to see. You wonder if you’ll see this particular slant of eyes tonight, lurking in the shadows behind your eyelids, if you forgo the laudanum. 

 _Same. I sorry._  You open your mouth, but she is continuing. _Past I wrong understand. Now true._

Barely a sound leaves your mouth, before she’s looking at you with an exasperated lid to her eyes. _Finish sorry. Quiet._

“One–”

_Quiet. Quiet._

The clacking of hollow bones is now accompanying the humming, a little syncopated. You shuffle your shoes amidst the weeds. They shuffle back.

“Does she still wish to be acquaintances with one? One understands perfectly if not, but one would like to make it clear that one would be very glad if she…” You trail off. The sack has landed at your feet with a clatter.

_Jade. Pearl, you need, I always tell you. With new thing, fun for you figure out. Careful not hurt self._

The sack squirms as you pick it up. You give it an experimental squeeze and a lick. It tastes of musk and clover. Whatever’s inside makes no sound but responds in a flurry of movement. “No hard feelings then?”

She makes no sound, and makes no sign for a long while. You look beyond her hands, strain to see her eyes. They’re blurring at the edges. _Court member, but still STUPID._

You hesitate. “Will she be at Hangman’s Arch this weekend?”

 _STUPID_ , her hands repeat. She pauses. In a small movement, she draws the fingers of one hand together. _No._

“Oh,” you say. You look at the sack.

Another long pause. Her hands make a few aborted flutters. _Someday send bat if you like._

You nod. “One would be glad to hear from her.”

The stillness stretches between the two of you, cloying. A rat shakes its head at you as it passes.

_Kiss person with, enjoy time._

You raise your head sharply. “Is that a…” You can’t bring yourself to supply the word. Her eyes drift upwards and you can feel it now, your hat coiling in agitation.

_Not threat. Hello instincts from Court. Finally. Late._

“One meant no offense.” You’re still thinking of her though, your Merissa, who will be waiting for you in that little coffee shop, and you ought to check that she still carries that walking stick of hers at all times.

Movement brings you back to yourself, and you catch the tail end of something she was signing as she turns away. “Sorry, one didn’t get that.”

_No._

You don’t bother asking her if she will repeat it. She stops with her back to you, hands shoved into her pockets. There is faint movement beyond her, coming from within the gloom. You can see eyes.

“You don’t need to worry about me.” You start at the sound of her voice. There’s a waver, a wobble in tonation that probably means she’s been speaking extensively with Rubbery Men lately. Probably. “No danger to you or her from me. Although I might still send constables your way when they start getting too dogged again.”

“One does not mind.” You hesitate. “One believes her.”

She takes a breath. You wait.

And you wait.

Moments pass, and you realise she’s no longer there.

As you walk up the steps leading to the Bazaar, you can no longer hear the humming coming from the reeds either. Just the bone player, still playing on the off-beats in perfect contentment.


	2. Leigh

The Sia thing was obvious, although even you hadn't known about Merissa. (Even Sia has cards she holds close to her chest, it turns out, secrets underneath the mask of free banter and freer affectionate gestures.) And for all of Selene’s paranoia, it is laughable how much of an open book she is with you. You do not ask for her musings to rival Shlomo on dreams and the language of the rubbery men, but you let her pour them out to you as you pour both of you two more glasses of ‘79. When she mentions her distaste for the soul trade, you praise the joys of abstraction until you have her on the verge of spitting fury. When you swing your legs over her windowsill and glimpse her attempts to transcribe tentacled burblings and whistles, you tease her for her ridiculous fondness for the creatures. You make no secret of your revolutionary connections and spare no details when recounting the most recent melting of a statue of Fires or bombing of a meeting of financiers that sent scraps of paper flurrying through the air, although always after the fact, of course. She might not turn you in, but you wouldn’t put it past her to sabotage you. (Some days, you bring up Sia, and she makes an aborted movement with her hands before she tells you to stop. You swing mid-sentence into talking about your latest attempt to place a firecracker in a church font or the scandalous story you heard last night down at the docks, yes, all over the Duchess’s boudoir and onto a ship bound for the tomb colonies.) You don’t quite live for the sound of her choked laughter generously interspersed with “Goddammit”s and “For fuck’s sake, Leigh”s, but you bask in it like one of the Duchess’s put-out felines.

So when she vanishes for a few days, you assume it’s because of Sia again. Selene's gotten better about it although you’ve noticed that she's still made no attempts to contact Sia yet and occasionally has returned from a rare visit to Veilgarden noticeably quieter.

It becomes even more likely that it’s Sia when you start hearing about the capped figure methodically working her way through the ranks of the Black Ribbon even though you know the Black Ribbon is old news for both of you. You wait for a sighting of her exiting the Shuttered Palace, with a conspicuous lack of blood on her. The next day, you ambush Feducci in the forgotten quarter and put a knife through his eye. You didn't plan for particularly dramatic timing, but it occurs anyway as you’re pulling the dagger from his eye socket and shaking a clinging bandage free from the blade edge. She doesn’t make a sound but you happen to look up anyway and there's her familiar silhouette at the top of the plaza steps. Her cap is pulled low over her face, but it’s never enough to conceal the grins, the scowls that cross her lips however fleetingly. The distance and the light, or lack thereof, here though work against you more than her choice of headwear does.

You raise your voice to carry. “Sorry. Did you want a piece?”

She flies into motion but stops just as abruptly, leaving the same shudder-stop jolting your frame. One of her hands drops from where it had been poised over her belt. Both of her shoulders fall. The hand that had been reaching for a weapon glides up to her face. You don’t remember the exact meaning of the sign she makes but you can guess the approximate intent. The two-fingered gesture she slides into as an afterthought underscores the point.

She turns her back on you. It’s too perfect to let slide, really. You don’t mean to miss. You are, some days you will admit and only to her, not the world’s best shot.

The fire in her eyes is finally visible despite the fog and the metres and the cap as she whirls around, dropped into an instinctive crouch at the sound of the shot, although that probably wouldn’t have saved her anyway if your bullet hadn’t hit the column behind her instead of lodging itself in her head.

A glint of light in her hand and there are the scissors. You’re moving before the reflection has time to settle.

She flings her arm up, and your knife catches in the juncture between blades. The momentum sends the scissors snapping shut with a screech of metal against metal. Another pair of scissors in her left hand that you don’t see but do feel as you hiss and jerk back. Light catches on the blades aimed for your neck and you stab at it.

She knees you in the stomach, delivering a painful reminder of the scissors still lodged in the wound there. An arc of blood flies as she wrenches the handle of your knife from her shoulder and you don’t let yourself think as you yank on the handles protruding from around waist-level.

Metal on metal. You send the knife flying out of her hand, same trick she used, that has to burn, with _her_ scissors too. When you look, not a smart move, you know, but guilty pleasures and all, there is nothing. You blink at her retreating back. What.

There is something like irritation reaching up from the back of your mind. You know she knows she won’t die permanently, and you’d both agreed there's not much up there worth braving the sunlight for, and you’ll be supportive but sometimes you wish she’d just get it over with and see it’s not as frightening as she acts like it is. And it’s not as if she doesn’t gleefully send you boxes of rats whenever she can, and she’s killed, ok, fewer people than you have, but enough that isn’t it a bit hypocritical, Selene.

And, really, does she think she can outrun you? Or a bullet?

You’re not the world’s best shot, but you are much faster a runner than she is. Who needs accuracy at this range?

She swerves while you’re still taking aim, and you grin. Pull.

You weren’t aiming to kill with this one; more’s the pity as it’s a perfect hit. She stumbles before she lunges away from you. One more shot if you remember correctly, and you take it. A cloud of dust explodes from the column behind her. If you’re lucky, it at least grazed her ear.

You spin the revolver round in your hand, fingers around the barrel. It occurs to you to wonder why she’s suspended in midair for a beat more than she should be as you pull your arm back to swing, a lantern, unlit, the chain creaking--

The chain snaps, Selene and lantern both sent crashing down, oil flying in an arc of droplets that hang in the air. Oil. Your swing is stopped in its tracks by metal smashing against your face.

“Fuck-- shit--!”

Through the pain and the film blurring your vision, you feel the revolver being pulled from your hand and you tighten your grip.

Pain explodes between your legs. A violent torrent of nausea claims any remnants of vision left to you.

You blink rapidly around the sick feeling in the base of your spine and stomach. Daubs of color gain shape, definition, in time for you to stare down the barrel of your own gun.

Click.

You grin.

Your head smacks against the ground hard enough to black out your vision, goddamn it, _again_. Bright spots dancing, beyond them, oh, that’s murder in her face and your own revolver rushing towards your face, hungry for the crunch of cartilage--

There’s a faint brush of air. You crack an eyelid open. She remains frozen a moment longer with the revolver swung past her shoulder, it must have missed your face by barely an inch, why, before she hurls it away from her. It bounces once with a clatter.

You sigh. And it had been going so well. You hadn’t been losing, of course not, but even if you had, there were always rematches. Although, you suppose, this is the closest you’ve gotten to killing each other before her hesitation kicked in, so it’s progress. “You missed there.”

“Lucky you.”

“Fight me,” you counter immediately. It’s easy, this. Words, if not blows. She is staring at you though, the cap came off at some point, and it’s cute that she’s even trying to hide the calculating nature of her gaze. Calculating is good. Although you can’t fathom why she stopped then. Playing the long game. Some strange idea of fair play. More likely. She doesn’t like planning for the long game; it’s why she refuses to play you in chess. (It’s also no fun when she refuses to cheat.)

“I think I just did.” Her eyes flick to where you can feel your shirt sticking to the flesh below your ribs. Yeah, there’ll be no getting the blood out of this one probably, no matter how many times you wash it. You’re also taking inventory, might as well if you’re going to be taking a break. You did graze her with the last bullet; there’s a line of red striping the delicate cartilage. The other bullet you already knew hit, the one to her leg, although you can’t see if it exited. The jacket is a loss from the hole in the shoulder and the blood leaking from it. She won’t be happy when she realises, but honestly what was she expecting?

“Why am I still alive then?”

The corners of her mouth flick upwards. “Probably because I didn’t turn your face into butcher’s meat.” Pause. “And then cook it.”

The oil. Oh, that’s terrifying but at the same time you’re strangely proud. You would be prouder if she had actually worked up the nerve to try it. “Oh, I see how it is. But Feducci’s fair game?”

“Feducci doesn’t--” She stops. You smirk at her. “What, Feducci doesn’t count? That’s rather racist.”

She rolls her eyes at you, but there’s something distant now in her expression. Sia again then. You’re not going to say anything, but really, whatever just sparked a memory of Sia probably wouldn’t have distracted her or even come up if she hadn’t _stopped_.

“Walking through Spite the other day.” She pauses. You stop reaching for the hidden pocket in your trousers. “I saw an urchin.”

“Oh no, not an urchin.”

She rolls her eyes. “She was talking to a deviless. About souls.”

“Oh no, not a deviless.”

“For fuck’s sake, Leigh.” She falls silent for a moment and when she speaks again, her words come in a sing-song. “I asked the little one why, if souls have so little value, was the deviless trying so hard to steal hers.”

You roll your eyes. “Of course you did.”

She doesn’t reply, instead watching her hands as she runs her thumb along one of the lines of her palm, back and forth. “That night, I woke up to the room on fire.”

The corners of your mouth plummet. “Which room?”

She shrugs. “Does it matter?”

“Well, I’ll have to know which one not to visit so I don’t inhale a lungful of ash.”

“Wouldn’t that be inconvenient for you.” She hesitates. “It was the bookshop.”

“That’s what you get for living in a firetrap. And for soulblocking.”

There is another moment of silence, and you’re watching as she lifts her eyes slowly to meet yours. They burn. “I’d do it again.” The lilting accent is gone from her voice.

“Better get used to sleeping in infernos then.” And she still protests against being brought too close to the brink of death, when she goes around and does shit like this. Really. Over the soul trade, of all things. You do not voice these thoughts. You had once, when wine had left the passage between your tongue and your brain less well-patrolled, and, well. You’d learned that there are three things Selene has strong opinions about: Sia, dying, and souls. Two of which you avoid broaching and being baited into discussing as a result. A philosophy course was not what you signed up for.

“If it’ll keep some of them from being tricked into giving up their souls before they’re old enough to decide.”

She’s about to say something more, but you cut in. “You realise how patronising that sounds, right? They’re old enough to spy for you, but not old enough to make their own decisions about their souls? Anyway--”

“Spying for me doesn’t take something away permanently. I don’t try to trick them.”

“You’re fine putting them in danger. It’s fine if they die, so long as they keep their souls?”

“None of us die permanently, and--”

“Oh, that’s ironic, coming from you. Look.” You hold your hands up. “Let’s not talk about this, alright? This is silly.”

“What would you have done with the Comtessa?” she fires back.

You blink. It’s not that you don’t remember, given it’s a subject you bring up more often than not, but it still seems a non-sequitur. “Would have been hard to set her on fire, what with her turning into stone.”

“Would you have killed her?”

“Sure.”

“Sure?”

“She wasn’t human anymore; the father had already lost her. If he’d pay you anyway, why not? Tie up all the loose ends.” You catch a glimpse of the half of her face not concealed by shadows and sigh. “What does this have to do with anything?”

The look she levels at you is cool, and you don’t like cool. Cool means sulking and avoidance until you can be bothered to find which lodging she’s calling home at the moment and coax or goad her into either getting the last word in or taking a swing at you. Unless you can nip it in the bud since you’re already here.

You’re deliberately slow in flicking out the second revolver. As if you were going to only carry a single gun on you. As you bring your arm up, you watch for her reaction, ready to counter. Just because you’re baiting her doesn’t mean you’re inclined to get punched or kicked again.

She leaps for your face, wow, ambitious, and you see blood on her trouser leg as you grab at it with your free hand and yank. She’s harder to throw than you’d like to admit, but an eye for an eye, a concussion for a concussion; it’s only fair.

Or not, as she falls on her shoulder instead of on her head. Oh well. That’s what the second revolver’s for.

You realise you are on fire in the same moment the pain reaches your brain.

For several moments, your world narrows down to agony and fuck fuck shit fuck. You pull the trigger reflexively, but you’ve no idea if you hit because _fire_. Some dim memory reminds you to stop, drop, and roll, but fuck that; you’re in pain and panicked but the greater danger here is not the fire, but _her,_ and you’ve no idea what she’s doing right now, you’re not going to just drop to the ground and present a nice prone target—flames reach hungrily for your face and you slap a hand against them even as you struggle with your clothes—fuck, why aren’t these trousers coming off—

Your jacket is also aflame but that’s easier to shrug off and fling as far from you as possible and ok, where is she, she has made a big mistake not taking that opportunity to finish you off because you were trying to play nice and make hers a nice clean death with a bullet through the head but not if she’s going to fucking _set_ _your_ _crotch on fire_.

She’s not there. You look all around, you look up even, because, hello, you were very recently on fire; you’re allowed some irrationality here. It’s also dark and there is plenty of old blood on the ground given this is Feducci’s favored dueling arena, which is why you don’t see the trail at first, and did you mention having been recently _set on fire_?

There’s a lot more blood than you were expecting, and you ponder this as you follow the droplets before you remember the wild shot you fired, which must have hit then. You hope it hasn’t killed her off already. That would be disappointingly anti-climactic.

The trail makes an abrupt swerve and you stop, follow it as far as you can with just your eyes. You can’t see from here, but going off the direction of the drops, you’re guessing they’re going to end up leading you through one of those dark windows, yeah, because they don’t scream ‘ambush’ in the least.

There’s blood pooled beneath one of the windows. You stand to one side and listen. You hear nothing. Which means one of three things: she’s waiting just on the other side of the wall and succeeding at remaining silent, she’s not there, or it’s her corpse waiting for you inside. So, no help whatsoever.

Your knife wasn’t there when you looked for it, but you still have bullets. You fire three of them through the window, one to either side of the frame and one below. When that doesn’t work, you fire upwards. Still nothing. You huff a breath of annoyance as you reload. Everything hurts, not that you would admit it or show it, and if she’s banking on that impeding your movements so that she can set up an ambush, well, that would be one way of winning but come on, tedious much? “What, are you scared? After all that talk about death not being permanent?”

Ok, if you were expecting a reply, maybe the jab about death wasn’t the best way to go about things admittedly, but you hadn’t been able to resist. Ugh. You swing your legs over the sill, wince, and take aim at the shadowy corners of the room. Nothing stirs.

Barely any light reaches the interior of the room, and you are forced to crouch and allow your eyes to adjust to the darkness. It doesn’t help much. You can see the droplets of blood closest to the window, but as they lead further in, the darkness obscures them. You’re not stupid enough to risk a light, especially not if that means fire. Not unless you can make sure she’s the one turning into a light source; there’s an idea. Although that requires finding her first. Ugh.

You don’t even try to follow the trail through the darkness. The rooms are big but there aren’t that many of them. That’s how you begin anyway. Your patience runs out before your blood does, but you still press on from room to room until lightheadedness tilts the world around you and you collide with the wall as it rushes towards you. You are very tempted to leave, one way or another, but something inside you screeches at the notion. You’re not leaving this building until one of you is dead. Confirmed dead. If it were anyone else, if it were Sia or Rando or Gi or anyone else, you would be sure by this point that they were dead. But you know from experience Selene can be...determined. You would not put it past her to still be patiently waiting for you to walk into the right room—although.

You realise that if she is crouched in a random room, or hanging above the doorway or whatever, she has no guarantee you won’t get sick of searching and leave. You’re not going to, not until you’ve managed to return the painful favor, but she doesn’t know that. If she wants to maximise her chances of successfully ambushing you, then it has to be in a location that you’ll most likely pass through no matter what. For instance, the exit. That you’d be hypothetically leaving through, highly disgruntled after a futile search, at your least likely to be on your guard, or so she thinks.

The window the both of you used as an entrance was on the back of the building. There was no door there. There are however, you note as you enter the foyer or whatever they call this, eyes on the shadows, three exits via the front. No doors, just deliberately missing bits of wall. The roof curves at the edges, you recall. Easy to perch on. Then again, she could have gone the easier route and simply be to the side of one of the doorways. You do remember that the leg shot hit. You pick the door to the left.

A glance outside, revolver at the ready, reveals no Selene. You chance poking your head out to take in the full length of the building front. Not there. Making as little noise as possible and keeping an eye on the overhang of the roof, you step outside and check around the corner. Nothing. The courtyard is an empty expanse of broken tiles and fallen pillars, and the nearest intact pillar you can see that would provide any sort of cover is at a distance you would not risk shooting from. She really did go for the roof then. Daring, although that’s still not going to save her.

One. Two.

On three, you lunge. Revolver trained on the roof, the instant you see movement, you’ll pull the trigger. But you never do. The roof is still, deserted.

You swing around, even though you just looked, there’s nowhere in the courtyard for anyone to hide, no one leaps out at you from cover that’s not there. The adrenaline pulses out of you.

You turn once more to stare at the building. Did you give her too much credit as to her strategy? The blood loss, panic, sheer ineptitude. She’s not dead; the idea is too ridiculous. She’s not dead; you’re certain of this. You’re staring at the doorway, now on your left, but it would have been the one on the right from the inside. You’re certain she’s not dead. Why? It’s too anticlimactic, she owes you, it’s simply impossible.

Why is it impossible?

Because, you reason, clawing your way through the fog of what must now be the majority of your blood drenching your shirt instead of carrying oxygen to your brain. Because there is a dark smear next to the doorway as if someone with bloody hands stumbled and had to catch herself with a hand on the wall there.

The splatters of blood are nigh invisible against the debris of the cracked and broken pavement, but you can follow them well enough as the trail continues onto more even ground. They lead into another building and you stare at it for a moment before going around it. They resume, coming out of a side entrance. As you begin to reach the outskirts of the quarter, the buildings fall away, and you stop. You can see the river from here, and the bridge that leads across it to Ladybones.

Apparently she is capable of being so discourteous. You scowl and take stock. Burns but they’re not pressing. Your face throbs, but that’s at most some cracked bone, no blood. The ugly gash in your stomach, torn flesh sticking to cloth when you pull at your shirt, is the problem. There’s no way you’re making it back to the embassy, even if it is closer than Ladybones.

The closest building to shore isn’t your idea of an ideal hiding spot, but it’s better than leaving your body out on the street for any random urchin to pickpocket and desecrate. The good news is, as you drag yourself into a dusty room, the way this is going, you won’t even have to waste a bullet on yourself. You can just close your eyes for a bit.

 

You and the ferryman nod at each other in the barest of greetings before he moves his pawn forward. This is routine now. Mate in twenty.

 

You don’t see Selene for days after you wake up, no longer burned, new skin hiding the hole in your stomach, pockets miraculously unmolested by thieves. The silence starts to grate after the fifth day. You’re still waiting for a knock on your door though, and it’d better be accompanied by at least a bottle of ‘72.

By the seventh day, you wonder if she’s still healing. If she managed to live, knowing her, she would’ve chosen to heal from her injuries the slow tedious way. She could very well still be bedridden as a result. That or she did die. Although you hadn’t seen her on the boat...but if you’re honest, you hadn’t been looking.

She hates chess.

The townhouse is where you check first. It’s a reasonable guess. It’s not her closest lodging, but it is close, and you know she hates the apartment above the gambling den. Too much smoke and noise. But she’s not there.

You check the gambling den place, because, ok, if she was injured and bleeding, she probably wouldn’t have been picky about noise and smoke inhalation. You get thrown back out the window by the new resident, wow, ok, she could have let you know she wasn’t living there anymore.

Neither of her lodgings near Watchmaker’s Hill prove any more rewarding. There’s only one more place you know she owns, but surely…

The bookstore itself escaped relatively unscathed. At any rate, it’s still open for business and the proprietress smiles at you with all the sweetness and genuineness of prisoner’s honey. No, she’s not seen the lady for weeks now. Yes, it was a lucky thing. The lady had been quite generous in agreeing to pay for the smoke damage to the books though, although it’s hardly surprising with how fond she is of them. A valued customer in addition to tenant, even if she’s a quiet one, never stays to chat. No, I can’t just let you into her flat, you look trustworthy, but you never know, do you, and anyone can just say they’re a friend, can’t they.

You end up climbing up to her window; you’re not sure why you bothered with the landlady honestly.

The wallpaper’s a loss. The walls are salvageable. The smell of smoke and damp ash still clings to every surface. There’s a conspicuous lack of Selene here as well. A noise rises out of your throat and you spin on your heel, reaching for the window frame so you can duck your head under the glass. You stop, hand hovering. You hadn’t noticed when you entered. There are smears of dried blood on the outer edge of the window frame, just beyond where you had been about to grip the frame. Your finger would have barely brushed one of the streaks.

For fuck’s sake. Is she _sulking_ then? She’s never pulled a disappearing act on you like this before though. Then again, she’d never set you on fire before. Nor had you come this close to killing her before. The both of you, pushing the boundaries.

Although that still doesn’t excuse her hiding from you, back in the forgotten quarter or now. You’re upping the peace offering you expect to a ‘44.

There are four distinct streaks that slot neatly against your fingers as you place your hand against the frame. They flake off at a touch, sticking to your palm. You inhale another lungful of the scent of scorched book and damp.

 

Back in your embassy room, you uncork a fresh bottle of ‘79 and settle down to wait.

And you wait.


	3. nobody

You must have taken a wrong turn. This is not Hollow Street. In the dim light cast by the gas-lamps, what few passersby parade before you in the most drab attire. The very doldrums of aestheticism, enough to bore the eyes dry of tears. Doldrums of aestheticism. You like that, the sounds spilling over themselves in your mind, and you’re turning them this way and that in gleeful admiration, when she--

She blazes forth, a Drownie’s song amidst the sea of darkness, a beacon. La phare de noire et rouge. Phare and fair, her very presence summons the poetry from within you, doldrums forgotten. She has passed you, but you stop short and spin around. All that is now visible is her billowing cloak, but you _saw_. What did you see? You must know yourself.

It takes effort to catch up to her, for it takes you several moments to stir from your trance. During which time, you stumble along after her quick footsteps. She is the piper and you are a stolen child, an irresistible song stroking your thoughts, cupping them tantalisingly close. The pied piper rewritten, in a cloak as bold as sin flowing around a figure that is metaphor brought to life. A figure shaped from the secret dreams of the children she calls to, those dreams that bring not cold sweat but perhaps tossing and turning and the perspiration that comes with the taste of heretofore unknown secrets until wakefulness rushes in with a blinding shudder. She needs no flute with which to lead you; she conjures instrument from flesh with one glance from beneath her heavy lids and lips laden rich with promise.

You are calling to her, but the words are lost to you amidst the thunder of the blood rushing in your ears. But miracle of miracles, her figure stops and turns, and you behold the vision that she is in all of its terrible majesty.

Whither are you bound, you breathe and the words spiral to life in the icy air, an offering to a goddess. She considers you and your benefaction, and you—oh! you shudder at your own boldness, daring to behold her in all her glory with the naked eye.

Home. Her voice wraps around you, and tugs you forward. Home? Olympus-bound? Asgard, but with no need for Idunn’s apples to preserve the flush of youth. O, stay but a moment, beauteous one. Your humble servant beseeches you. Hestia’s hearth can await your presence, whereas I… You raise a hand in supplication. Pray, delay your journey but for a moment. Heal me, my goddess.

What is the matter? Such soft pity upon her brow, gentle and tender! There is a story rising from the mists of memory, an ailing man brushing but a finger against the hem of a god’s cloak, healed. O, this fever that burns beneath my skin, you have given and you must take it away, I pray you. You grasp the edge of her cape, but it is no remedy; it stokes the flames even higher, this fire in your skin searing you to the core. Her touch is your only salvation. Of this, you are certain. Walk with me a ways, this mortal begs. Surely, there can be no errand so urgent that you cannot spare a moment, a day, a dream. One dream walked with this mortal. Share some honey with me, surely as sweet, O sacrilege to say, but surely as sweet as the ambrosia in Olympus. Let Morpheus make us forgetful of the unkind thread that separates us, and with his blessing, let us return to and enter paradisum together.

And then--! O! the cruelty, inconstancy of the zee! To deny you remedy—nay, reparation. The gods have always amused themselves at the expense of mortals. She toys with you, this Aphrodite, sidling away from your proffered hand, as if it is not a worthy offering made before her visage, as if she does not covet each and every amorous token made in the name of eros. Does she not smite those who proclaim themselves above such desires? Does she not consider it a personal challenge to steal every follower of Artemis away? Freely given devotion—ah, it must bore her. Well, mortals too can play at capriciousness.

You feign nonchalance. Very well then, as your divinity wishes. And in a moment of destiny’s decree, the very cunning of Loki fills you. After all, what need have I for love! ‘Tis but a trifling concern. You toss your head in scorn, and if it should present the better half of your visage, that is but a mere happy coincidence. Having stung her pride and piqued her interest, you do not mind playing the role of the quarry, the gleam of gold to one side of the track.

You cannot resist. You must see the change you have induced. Perhaps those lips have parted, in indignation, yes, but also desire. Eyes become that of a predator’s, dark with covetous greed born of pride. The tail of a red cloak melting into the darkness.

You raise your head fully, all pretense of disinterest cast aside, blinking in the gas-lamp glow. Your fever retreats for one merciful moment, driven back by the wave of bewilderment. It returns as the tide does, in a burst of cruel clarity. Ah, to be so burdened by the confines of dignity that she cannot debase herself by stooping to the role of the huntress—but you are considerate. If it is your impetus that she seeks, then you are glad to bestow it upon her. And the fates have been so kind as to show their favor by granting you this insight. It is with this blessing that you rouse yourself and the sound of blood drumming within your ears drives you forth.

She turns just before you reach her, and you stiffen in anticipation. Her face tight with the façade of hard steel, but, to you who have the eyes to see, a fine tremor of anticipation runs through her. The sight—sends a sharp lance of pain shooting through you. O, what a mischievous urchin is Cupid! Firing unnecessarily upon those whom, from the first sultry glance, had been pierced to depths no arrow nor bullet could ever hope to reach. She lingers, just a hand’s stretch away, and one more step will allow you to grasp her wrappings, unfurl the waiting softness and tenderness from within their cage.

A brush against your fingertips—and then the touch is gone, mocking you. You strain. To no avail. Confusion wracks your being as the cobblestones rise before your eyes and rush towards you. You put out a hand and halt its approach a hair’s breadth away from your face. The pain from Eros’s playful shot does not recede, but instead scorches through you, rendering your legs useless and the remains of your fever a dull ember smoldering within your core, cowering in the face of the inferno. Jealousy? A weapon from the master’s forge, wielded by he who best knows how to use it, the husband and the lover in collusion? And she, none the wiser, flies from you, believing the game is still on. Or else—no, she would not. You could not bear it if she—if the alternative were true.

Through the haze, her cloak flares out, a brilliant beacon—no, not a beacon, a lure. And, O Fates, traitorous as they too have turned out, help you, wiser now, you still cry out in loss as it vanishes into the fog. All her names and what epithets you can recall through the pulses of pain tumble from your lips, but are lost to the wind.


End file.
